Cyrus shrouds himself in anger, but given the way his female clients clamber all over him, I’m starting to wonder if his palpable aggression is an armor to stop himself from having to try to be polite to females who only seem to have booked appointments to try to have sex with him.
Betty is professional to a fault. She’s friendly, but has clear boundaries that all of her clients seem to understand and abide by.
My doll seems to draw people to her like a moth to a flame. Since she posted about being here in Rockhead Point, her previously silent cell phone hasn’t stopped dinging withmessages asking for appointments, friends inviting her out, and her ex trying to contact her.
It’s Friday, and her fifth day in the studio, which is now bustling with life since three of the remaining four artists have arrived and started working. Jed, Brooks, and Sullivan, or Sully as he asked everyone to call him, have brought an enthusiastic energy that has filled the already lively studio with excitement and laughter.
The more chaotic the studio has gotten, the more vivacious my doll has become. I hadn’t realized how much of a people person she is, or how much she’d withdrawn from her friends when she’d returned to Rapid City.
Everyone wants to talk to her, to be around her, and to feed off her infectious personality. But the more people want of her, the less I want to share. She’s mine. My wife. My doll. Mine, and the harder others try to pull her toward them, the tighter I hold her to me.
Despite her protests on Tuesday, I can tell that Octavia has started to crave the orgasms I give her in the tub, during her lunch break, and the moment we get home each night. Every day this week, she’d woken up needy for me, climbing me in the gym or the pool and settling herself onto my dick, like just having me inside of her settles her need for me.
I love it, and I love her. Each time I fill her with my cum, I imagine it being the time she gets pregnant, and every time I hold her legs in the air, or push a pillow beneath her butt, is just another chance for me to breed her.
I’ve arranged for us to see a doctor in a month’s time. By then her birth control shot will have expired, and hopefully her body will be ripe and ready to be bred. I can’t wait until she’s full of my baby and the entire world will know that she’s mine.
“Baby, could you look in my boxes and see if my purple and black stripy socks are in there, please? I swear I rememberpacking them, but I don’t know where they are, and they look really cute with this outfit,” she says, facing away from me in the closet, dressed in a black pinafore dress with a purple collared shirt beneath.
“We need to unpack tonight,” I tell her, pulling my jeans up over my hips and fastening the button at my waist.
“Urgh. I’m going to be at work until nine p.m., and we still need to place all the furniture that’s been delivered. I’ve barely had time to play on any of the pinball and arcade machines you got for me.”
“You could cancel your clients today, and we could stay home?” I suggest.
“You know I can’t do that.”
“Why not?” I question.
“Are you serious?” she snaps, spinning around to glare at me. “My job is not a hobby. It’s art, and people pay a lot of money to get tattooed by me. I can’t just cancel.”
Her anger is unexpected because I’ve never downplayed or disregarded her job.
“God, you’re such an asshole,” she yells, rushing from the closet and out of the bedroom.
The moment she’s out of sight, my heart starts to race, and I pull my cell from my pocket and open the camera feed, finding her storming through the living room and into the garage. If it were anyone but her, I would let go and allow them to deal with their own feelings, but this is my doll, and I want—no need—to understand why she’s angry with me.
Grabbing a shirt, I pull it over my head as I leave our bedroom and descend the stairs. The garage door is shut, and even though I can still see her on the camera feed on my cell, my heart is racing, panic filling my veins as I pull open the door and step into the room.
“I am not canceling my clients,” she shouts when she notices me, her attention half on me, and half on the boxes she’s ripping apart as she tries to find the socks she’s missing.
“I’ll help,” I say, gently moving her to the side and taking over the search. Apart from the boxes that were full of her tattoo equipment, this is the first time she’s expressed any interest in the rest of the things I had transported here from Rapid City. Pulling apart the cardboard lid, I sift through the contents, finding a random assortment of kitchen equipment, framed photos, and drawings. There are a few awards from tattoo conventions and competitions, and other items that don’t seem to have any relevance to the rest of the things in the box.
Discarding the first box to the side, I open the next box and find it full of books. There’s a mixture of art, tattoo design, and some romance books, along with a few hair accessories and two pairs of shoes.
I find her socks inside a mixing bowl, packed next to a bottle of perfume and several purses. Holding them up, I turn to look at her. “These ones?”
Arms crossed across her chest, she nods, her lips pursed into a pouty frown. “Thanks,” she reluctantly says, holding her hand out to take them from me.
Not offering them to her, I close the distance between us, following her as she steps backward until her back is pressed against the door.
“Tell me why you’re angry?” I ask.
“Because you think I can just cancel my appointments, like my job isn’t important.”
“That wasn’t my intention,” I advise her.
“I’m an artist. I’m not a hobbyist. Tattoos help people with grief. They commemorate life. People come to me and trust me to put something permanent on their skin. I’m not just tracing flash stolen from the internet. I’m an artist.” Her anger is clear,but beneath that is something darker, like I’ve done more than make her mad. I’ve hurt her.
